


somniare

by Antartique



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dimension Travel, Gen, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 19:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20765678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antartique/pseuds/Antartique
Summary: That day, the dearly beloved Professor of the Blue Lions house of Garreg Mach, and the Prince of Faerghus -would have been Savior King, had things gone right-, vanish into the Void.Thales has won. Faerghus falls.Except that's not what happens at all.Years later, in the midst of war, the Sword of the Creator is sighted once more, accompanied by a monstrous figure in black and blue. Like lightning, they strike quick and deadly before they vanish as if they were never there.Felix Fraldarius, successor to the throne, wants to hope. Yet there are some instances where maybe what he needs is a sword instead of dreams of better times, long gone by now.





	somniare

**Author's Note:**

> **Inspired on @ guessibetter 's art (in Twitter), and expanded from there.**
> 
> **Warnings:** major character death (not really), denial, mourning, children with too much on their shoulders. Implied offscreen relationships. War. Possession and identity issues. Not in this chapter, but there will also be mentions/implications of necrophilia, brainwashing, torture, kidnapping, who knows what else... To be tagged then.

That day, the dearly beloved Professor of the Blue Lions house of Garreg Mach, and the Prince of Faerghus -would have been Savior King, had things gone right-, vanish into the Void.

Thales has won. 

Unbeknownst to them, this event would trigger the very end of society as they know it within the following decade. The Empire attacks, the Kingdom is absorbed, and the Alliance dissolves once more. The forgotten lords of Faerghus would have tried to resist for six whole years, until their eventual demise, cornered by armies of beasts and paper white soldiers. The lords of the Alliance would now be in servitude to inhuman creatures, blood extracted and twisted until they were no longer recognizable. Followers of the Church of Seiros, and Seiros herself, would tear themselves to shreds attempting to protect their last stronghold. Soon, the dread would expand to the foreign lands, to the lands of Almyra and Morfis and Albinea, slow and steady conquest lead by a single woman who, as a puppet at the hands of her puppeteer, goes along with plans that have been written for centuries, unable to free herself long enough to claim back her own identity.

All of this, because there is no embodied Goddess, no banner to fight under, no single force unifying the remnants of sanity in the country. Leadership falls on young adults, barely out of their childhood clothes, who are unable to fight back the way they would have, had someone lead them. 

The Empire attacks, the Empire conquers. Long live Adrestia and Emperor Edelgard.

Except that’s not what happens.

The dearly beloved Professor of the Blue Lion house, and the Prince of Faerghus -would be the Mad King, herald of Death, bloody fangs tearing into Imperial formations with strength gifted by the Lords of War themselves-, vanish into the Void. 

Thales does not win, not right away.

Possibly not ever.

What actually happens is the following:

The Blue Lions and their allies head home, defeated, without Professor or Prince in their numbers. Garreg Mach greets them with somber silence and mournful eyes, yet no one dares approach them that night. They go through the motions with no will or energy, barely speaking, barely eating, barely sleeping.

Come the following morning, two birds take flight from the Monastery: one towards Derdriu, the other towards Enbarr. An hour before midday, Gilbert Pronislav leaves at full speed for Fhirdiad, a troop of knights at his heels. Finally, just as night falls, the booming call of a mourning carnyx freezes them all on the spot, just as Lady Rhea assembles a makeshift and very private ceremony in Byleth and Dimitri’s memory.

_ They aren’t dead_, Felix wants to say, but everyone knows there is a low chance they will ever find them again. He wants to have some hope, if only that they will retrieve a body, might they be able to perform a proper burial; but also, he _ knows_, no matter what, that they would rather be dead than wherever Solon left them to their fates.

And so, he stands to one side, listening to the empty words of the Archbishop as she goes on and on about the brights minds they have lost and the mourning of the land and might the Goddess care for them in their embrace. He is surrounded by the friends and family he has left, some in tears, some just as dry-eyed as himself, but all of them equally tired of how _ fake _ everything sounds.

He leaves before the ceremony is over. He can’t stand it anymore. He has letters to write, a funeral to arrange and plans to make. Everything will become busier now that Dimitri is… not around, and he can’t waste time with traditions that are not _ his_. 

The day that follows, as the other two houses are in class, Dedue and Felix pack their Prince’s -and friend’s- belongings. The other Blue Lions are also readying themselves to leave, all material possessions messily thrown together for easier travels. The dorms, both the upper floor and the lower one, become a monotone sight to each of them as they run around to help their friends.

It is while doing this, that Felix sees a heartbroken Archbishop walk into the Professor’s room, where she stays until near nightfall. She is carrying a small bag, possibly Byleth’s belongings.

He ignores it.

It is not his business.

Four days later, the Blue Lion house officially dissolves. It is but a mere formality, a means to let them return to their homes without business left behind. They are quickly given their graduation speech in the presence of the staff, Claude and Edelgard, and then they are free to go.

As Dedue and Ashe load up their wagon, with their friends from other houses helping, Mercedes gathers flowers from each of them. With a full bouquet in hand, she drags Felix to the Monastery’s graveyard.

It is sad, that their beloved Professor, who guided them for a short time yet was still _ theirs_, would not rest with his parents. His name had been carved right below Jeralt’s, and a simple epitaph in the shape of the Crest of Flames had been carved into a smaller headstone and placed next to it. 

They do not question it. It is not their business.

They just place the flowers where they belong, and without looking back, board their carriage to head home.

Home. To Fhirdiad. To their people.

To mourn.

Their classmates scatter around Fhirdiad when they arrive, to see their families or find their household’s head in the crowds. The seven of them, closest to Prince Dimitri and the top of their class, do their best to make sure they all have a roof over their heads and familiar faces around them. 

It is crowded. Fhirdiad has not seen so many people in years, not since King Lambert’s funerals. The city is quiet and subdued, with children running on the snow to keep each other busy and women wandering the streets offering warm drinks.

Their duties done, they go to the castle.

The Witenaġemot is already in session when they get there. Without a word, they slip into the conference hall -Mercedes, Ashe and Dedue stand outside, besides the door- and settle in the back, with the lesser nobles and heirs who are properly showing their respect.

The Prince’s Regent, Rufus, directs the meeting with all the grace expected of royalty (Felix hates it). As he has no heirs, the throne should go to the closest of kin to late King Lambert, who they are all surprised to learn should be Edelgard due to marriage.

The nobles put up their protests. They will _ not _ give the crown to an Imperial heir, no matter how dear she was to her step-father in the past, _ if _ she ever was. There is a reason why none of them have heard of it until now, after all.

The assembly goes on for long hours. As night falls outside and candles are lit in the hall, Sylvain takes Ingrid and Annette to join their classmates for a meal.

Felix stays.

He stays for as long as he can, even when his eyes start closing on their own. Noblemen have always been _ boring _ in their talks and debates, and now more than ever he wishes he had not been born to blood and status.

The day’s meeting ends in nothing.

With a heavy heart, he makes his way to Dimitri’s room and falls asleep next to the fire, wrapped in blue and black and gold embroidery that does not match his crest.

The Witenaġemot gathers for a week straight, from morning to late evening. At times, Felix will go with Annette or Ingrid; others, he will ask Sylvain to head in and tell him about it later.

In the meantime, he arranges a funeral. Or well, tries to arrange a funeral.

(There is no body, not even the smallest remain of Dimitri to remember he was once alive. All they have is weapons, hundreds of tools broken with bare hands and too much focus, and memories of easy smiles and wild eyes, of friendly words and broken movements. 

He wishes he knew what to do, but there is no one left to ask.)

Fhirdiad mourns. Faerghus itself mourns, isolating itself with treacherous weather and frozen paths. The snowstorm rages for whole days, allowing for only brief hours of rest between each wave. The wind wails like a grieving widow each night as multiple families huddle together for warmth.

They hold the funeral when the storm rests. They wrap a bundle of broken lances and swords in blue cloth, tie it together with braided reins, and place it on a stone slab outside the castle’s gates. For a whole day, the people brave the cold winds and harsh snow to offer their gifts to the dead Prince.

Come night, Lord Rodrigue and Lord Rufus light the pyre on fire.

Fhirdiad mourns.

The assembly reaches a decision a day later: the crown will remain with Rufus for the time, while the Fraldarius line, as sworn family, will move up in the order of succession.

Felix locks himself up in Dimitri’s old room and continues being in denial.

(If a day soon after, he corners Sylvain in one of the guest rooms and asks, _ begs _ him to _ break him__,_ that is between them and them alone.)

When the weather calms down and the people return to their homes, news from the outside finally reach their ears.

The Empire has declared war against the Church.

_ The Massacre of Garreg Mach__,_ it is called.

Rumours spread from the nearby villages to cities and, finally, to Fhirdiad. They are not important, to _ them_, as all Blue Lions students and other staff loyal to Faerghus had safely reached their homes before the attack happened. Still, upon hearing the news, the Knights of Seiros who had escorted them back, as well as the clergy, quickly made their way back to the Monastery to aid in its defense.

It is a tense few weeks, with the people anxiously awaiting for news. It comes to a point that messengers and newsbearers are announced in the city with the call of carnyx, and most coming information is treated as must know to every citizen of the Kingdom. Word passes from the messengers to the townspeople to the nobles, unless it is sensitive information, but even then secrets are rarely kept for long.

That is the political climate in Faerghus when Regent Rufus drinks poisoned wine.

(They all know it is not suicide.)

Lady Cornelia, still one of the most powerful mages in the country, tries to throw the blame on Lord Rodrigue. The Witan deny her claims, but the seed of mistrust has already been planted, and soon the country sees itself divided. It is a grand disaster that could have led to the fall of the Kingdom as it is… but it doesn’t.

People witness. People talk. Some people who dare not speak before, in the current state of no secrets held, bring the information to the assembly: few months ago, Lady Cornelia was seen meeting with a man in Imperial red and black. This, along with papers delivered by an _ unknown _ benefactor in their ranks, penned in her hand and signed with her stamp, give them enough leverage to officially put her under suspicion.

It does not end well.

With the charges of high treason and _ almost _ regicide, Cornelia flees Fhirdiad. Royal soldiers and hunters track her to Arianrhod, where they lose her to unknown means. 

That should have been the end of it.

But nothing is ever that easy.

Garreg Mach falls, and with it the last defense against Imperial advance north. Faerghus prepares for war. While the high command falls on Lord Rodrigue, now King, each region prepares for the worst their own way. Lords amass their troops and guard their villages and raise bridges; nobles direct their people towards efficiency. The old, self-sustaining cities close their gates for easier defense.

Felix retreats to Fraldarius, where he gets to work his own, boring way: writing letters. Establishing alliances is a must when in war, which doesn’t mean he enjoys it: he would rather be in the field, fighting with their people, but that is not his duty. Just as Sylvain has to stay at the border, he has to stay here and control the gulf. 

It would be better if they exchanged places. Writing back and forth with House Riegan feels like playing a long-winded game of chess between four players, where no one does _ anything _ in fear someone’s queen will move without warning. A game where he, a man with no motives aside from his country’s safety, is at a disadvantage: their queen and king are gone and they play with fewer pieces on the board.

Letter trading with Claude goes well enough and they soon hold the gulf as peaceful grounds. Supplies come in and go out along with coded letters and soldiers, updates from all over the Alliance making it to him before going to the King. Felix keeps steady communication with all of Faerghus through his old classmates, the map of war taking shape as each lord movilizes and retreats accordingly. 

The Kingdom and the Alliance act almost as one against the attacking Empire, but it is a stalemate. They are at a hold for years, some months even spent fighting dissidents in their own lands.

Then, the Empire attacks Myrddin.

Felix boards Ashe, a squadron of men at his command and a platoon of footmen from his own house on a ship and sends them to support the war effort at the bridge; he gets a trembling, pale Ignatz with a heavily encrypted letter in exchange. He sends the snipers on their way to Magdred the day after (Cornelia is at it again), and then has to sit down with Ignatz to try and decode the letter.

“It… is not pretty,” Ignatz says, sipping at his tea with fingers scarred from bow strings. “If things keep this way, we will lose Myrddin. Duke Goneril was even thinking of moving some of his men out of Fódlan’s Locket to support it, but-“

“That would not be wise.” Felix has a tower of papers on his desk, a half decoded letter in his hand. He is paying some attention to the conversation, but is mostly focused on the letter: there is something odd in it, a new reference that Claude had not used before. “How things are going, Almyra could take its chance to attack when our eyes are elsewhere.”

“Claude is dealing with it, but luckily we have been getting support from elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

Felix remembers. An envelope delivered with a vague sketch of the crest of Blaiddyd as a single clue. Word of marching Imperial troops threatening towns and fortresses, only to be found dead the night after by lance wounds and spellfire. An unknown healer casting field wide spells on losing battles, a feral howl the only warning before soldiers on the _ other side of the field _ fall to their deaths. Claude’s comments on tips they get, about Imperial marches or rebellions that have not yet begun, with enough time in advance to stop them before they cause too much trouble.

Felix wants to hope. He tries to not give in to a dying wish, but...

“Yes, there is… someone, attacking our enemies. Weakening them.”

But it makes no sense. Reports of these mysterious happenings reach them far too often, different sides of the Kingdom attacked within days of each other. Whoever they are, it cannot be just two people running from one side of the _ continent _ to the other within a week.

(And yet, with no bodies left behind, no proof that they are _ really _ gone…)

Ignatz finishes his tea and excuses himself, off to oversee his men and the new shipment. Felix asks him to return the day after.

He does not wait.

At the break of dawn, he releases a bird north, shoves a hastily written reply to Ignatz’ guard, and rides off to Fhirdiad. Claude’s letter burns in his pocket, its words carved in the back of his eyelids, repeating loud and clear in his head.

_ Sword of the Creator sighted in Hrym. _

(The Witan ignore him. According to them, he has been blinded by grief, trying to see light in the smallest things. They ignore that it was _ Claude _ that gave this information, claiming children’s games and crazy talk.

Felix claims a training ground and spends hours breaking it apart.)

He has to wait for Sylvain to get here before he can go anywhere. He waits, locked up in Dimitri’s rooms, with Annette sitting by the window singing some nonsense song. Dedue and Mercedes bring them food and colorful flowers, news of the castle and smuggled weapons.

They will pick up Ingrid in the way, and Ashe at Myrddin. The few of their classmates that are still in Fhirdiad will cover for them for as long as they can, but they don’t have much time to disclaim or confirm rumours.

They promised to meet again five years after graduation. They are a year early, but surely, surely…

(He ignores the tiny voice in his head, that tells him to _ look_. Surely Byleth, if he was around still with his optimistic ideals, would be fighting to stop all this instead of keeping the holding pattern that has been going for years. Surely Dimitri, if he was alive, would show himself to the people and country he so loved, as a guiding star in the darkness of war.

Surely people cannot change so much in so little time.

He ignores the tiny voice, curls up on his side with Dimitri’s blanket clutched in his hands, and continues being in denial.)

They ride out in the middle of the night. They travel for too long and rest too little, and reach Galatea in record time. Ingrid gets Mercedes on her pegasus and flies ahead, the others following the morning after. It is the fastest travel any of them have ever done, and they are all beat when they reach Gloucester.

(Lorenz is not impressed. Felix is pretty sure he wants to wrap them in blankets and chains and keep them locked away until they recover, but instead he just feeds them and offers new mounts.

He has never been more grateful to his many, many times removed cousin in his life.)

They find a camp of Alliance soldiers in a small village, Ingrid’s pegasus perched on a tower acting as a landmark. Mercedes herself is running around, casting heal spells wherever she goes; Annette quickly joins her while the other go find Ashe. The people around the camp are exhausted, recovering from long days on the battlefield, and are in no mood to talk to them at all, not even the rare Kingdom soldiers they find on their paths.

They find Lysithea tending to some of the wounded in a house, with Ashe curled up in a corner. He is clinging tightly to his bow, trembling, looking as if he saw a ghost; when he sees them, he cringes and tries to hide deeper into his blanket.

“Ashe?” Dedue goes to sit next to him, while Sylvain stands guard between them and the other injured soldiers. Felix himself just hovers nearby, waiting.

It takes a while before Ashe is ready to talk to them. He makes some mumbling starts, but then cuts himself short and draws closer on himself as if he didn’t want to be near them. He never lets go of his bow, not even when Dedue tries to take it from him: in fact, his grip only grows tighter, until fresh blood is dripping from it and on the ground.

Lysithea leaves, quiet, and Sylvain confirms to them that the soldiers are asleep. Then, and only then, does Ashe speak:

“I- I saw him- I saw His Highness.”

It takes all of Dedue’s strength to keep Felix from running out.

Ashe’s whole tale comes out after some hours, with some words from Lysithea who comes by to guide Mercedes, Annette and Ingrid to them. In very short words, it goes like this:

They had been at Myrddin, Ashe, Lysithea and some soldiers from the Alliance, near the southern side. They had been tasked with intel gathering and scouting ahead for the next day, as they had heard words of reinforcements coming and had decided to strike once more before their arrival. However, when they arrived the Imperial camp, all they heard was silence.

“It was like death itself had striken down, like a plague,” Ashe says, eyes haunted and voice weak. “There were bodies everywhere, some missing limbs as if they had been pulled from them by raw strength- it was… a sight from nightmares, the worst of war all in one place…”

“We heard voices,” Lysithea cuts in. Her voice has not changed much. “They were really quiet, like they were trying to keep it to themselves? But well, we are quiet too, so we approached.”

They got closer to the voices. There were three, two sounding as if they ‘came from the underworld itself’, another cheery and almost insane (‘Like that woman, Kronya’). Their words made no sense, either in an ancient language or simply too mangled by the speakers for them to be understood by normal people.

Ashe recognized Thales. The both of them recognized Dimitri.

“He did not look well.”

“He was… thin. From some distance I thought I was looking at a walking skeleton, but when we got closer… It _ was _ His Highness, I am sure of this. His posture was the same, and the way he held that heavy spear as if it weighed nothing, it wasn’t different from the last time we saw him? Just, taller.” Ashe shudders, eyes closed as if he was remembering something he did not wish to remember. “He was… There was so much blood on him. The armour was black, so we could not see well, but there was blood on his hair and his hands and-“

“One of his eyes was red.” Lysithea traces her fingers around her right eye, drawing an invisible pattern branching from it. “I don’t think it is real. It felt… empty.”

They had tried to listen in for a bit longer, but they did not seem to want to talk anymore. Thales had warped out, and the third figure had finally shown its face from where it was hiding under Dimitri’s cloak.

“It was Byleth, but not?” Lysithea tugs at Ashe’s sleeve, wrapping his arm around her so they can cuddle. She saw Byleth as an older brother, closer than most people had been. “He felt… _ void_. Even more than empty, like he was able to pull everything around him and… _ destroy _ it with no effort.”

“He was _ laughing_. It was like he was happy to be stuck in the middle of a slaughter, but also-“

They go quiet.

Felix knows he won’t get more information from them now, so he gathers himself, Sylvain and Ingrid, and leaves the other to rest.

* * *

_ “What happened to him?” _

_ The Man looks at him, still sucking on the strawberry He had so carefully taken from the tray. His lips are red, His skin white as paper under this light. Yet He smiles, as always, even as His eyes narrow in what could be grief. _

_ “Hm, you mean, to Dima?” _

_ “Yes.” _

Dimitri comes back to his senses and full control of himself when they are back behind closed doors and mechanic statues. The other removes their cloak and sighs, before reaching to take out the stone that is their eye. And, with the eye, the strings around his limbs give in and collapse around him, like some light show only he can see, forcing the other back into the deepest part of his subconscious where it cannot bother him.

The sensation when he recovers his body is always weird. Like coming out from a pool of water, or rather frozen cold ice, climbing up with all the strength he can offer. He will come out, his head exposed to the warmth of the world once again, to the sights and smells, and other feelings he does not have half the time he is awake.

It is overwhelming.

He throws up.

“Are you well, young prince?”

The Man-who-is-not-Byleth kneels next to him, soft hands caressing his face with all the tenderness He ever allows Himself to show. His nails, long and sharpened and tinted black, dig in Dimitri’s cheeks and neck, just deep enough to leave a thin red line yet not drawing any blood. His lips are curled up in a textbook smile, too perfect to be anything besides uncanny. His eyes too, wander all over him, finding each little injury or dirt or the hint of human touch or blood so He can get rid of them.

It takes a few minutes, but finally the Man is happy with his work. His hands take the glowing red orb from Dimitri’s fingers so He can press His lips against it, chaste and loving as He always does.

“You are still not used to Dima, I take?”

Dimitri shakes his head. He can barely speak on a good day, and today is most definitely not a good day. Five hours ‘Dima’ was in control, which is more than enough to make him feel sick, a pounding headache between his eyes and muscles hurting from unnatural strain.

He will never get used to the weight of someone else in his head, to the way his body moves against his will, or even to the presence of the stone eye where there is nothing at all. He will never be used to ‘Dima’, because he does not want to: this is _ his _ body.

(He wants to go home.)

The Man-who-will-never-be-Byleth hums, helping Dimitri up to his feet. His strength is inhumane, almost as much as Dimitri’s own, but with none of the care Dimitri puts in his movements to not break anything. He can already see the bruise forming where He grasped his arm.

“Rest for now. We have some fun months ahead of us.”

The Man leaves.

Dimitri looks at the door for a couple more minutes, before heading deeper into the room that has become his -their own. Byleth is still sleeping on the bed, wrapped protectively around his sword. There is no heartbeat. There was never a heartbeat. 

At times Dimitri feels like he could give his heartbeat away, if only to see that smile once more. If only to see Byleth, no black rings around his eyes, no carefully crafted smile, no childish giggles or manic schemes.

At times he just wants everything to stop.

_ “You know I will never be him, right?” _

_ Dimitri feels his face being held, ever so tenderly, no claws this once. The Man is getting better at dealing with the thinness of human skin, which is at least an improvement. _

_ “But you look like him?” _

_ “But I am not.” _

_ The Man hums, eyes sparkling in amusement, before He leans down to press His lips against Dimitri’s own. It is soft, and chaste, and with all the sensuality he could expect from someone who has never touched another in their life. It should be sweet, innocent, a gift. _

_ He feels sick. _

_ The Man pulls away, the gentlest smile on His face. He looks like the Goddess herself as the Church painted her, familiar and comfortable and monstrous. _

_ “But you will be.” _

_ The Man-who-might-be-Byleth raises His hand to his right eye. And then- _

_ “Oh, you will be.” _

_ **Red**. _

**Author's Note:**

> And that's three... This was really fun to write. Bullying Felix and Dimitri is my favorite hobby, did you not know?


End file.
